


Stockholm Syndrome

by orphan_account



Series: Requests [1]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: F/M, Forgiveness, Kidnapper!Michael, Mild torture, Requests, Short Fics, Stockholm Syndrome, Victim!Reader, blurbs, eventual love, triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5035345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't look that dangerous.<br/>He's pretty.<br/>Pretty neurotic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stockholm Syndrome

By the time Friday rolls, you feel like you’re going to implode with the stress of the week you’ve had. In all honesty, you’ve had worse, but if you didn’t ingest even a little alcohol tonight, you might actually kick someone’s teeth in.

That’s how you’ve ended up at the club downtown, the one everyone’s been talking about. It’s huge, the music is loud, and it’s crowded, but it’s exhilarating. Your hips are swaying to the throbbing music, in a way you didn’t know you could move, but maybe it’s the people all around you, or the two shots you’ve had, but being surrounded by sweaty strangers has never been so exciting.   
You’re dancing with some guy you don’t know, but he’s beginning to get a little tiny bit handsy, so you decide it’s time to ditch him, and you make an excuse that he can’t hear above the music before slipping away, towards the bar. Politely declining the drunken requests to dance, and shoving that one jerk who chooses you as his next victim to grind on, you huff as you drop onto a barstool, glancing around for the bartender.   
Down at the far end, serving a tray of beers to some loud frat boys, there he is. Hair glowing under the blacklight, he wears a black button down and tight black pants, his white tie lit up purple in the dark. He’s cute and you think about asking for his number but what you really want is another drink. He comes your way, and you’re too busy thinking about your drink that you don’t realize he’s standing right there.

He’s smiling at you.   
Huh.

“What can I get you?” He asks, his voice raised a bit. You can’t help but notice his luminous eyes, and you smile sheepishly.

“Uh… Jack and Coke. “ You mumble. "Please.”

Your stuttering must be funny, because he laughed softly before turning his back to fix the cocktail. Your cheeks are warm, and you swear quietly, knowing that you must look so stupid. You hang your head, groaning softly. He sets the drink in front of you and your eyes float to the glass.  
“You alright down there?” He asks, leaning on the counter so that he’s now level with your face.

You look up, nodding rapidly as you pick up the glass, slugging the liquid down quickly in an effort to avoid talking and inevitably embarrassing yourself, but as you place the cup back on the bar, he’s still standing there, smirking at you.

“What?” You ask, looking down at yourself. Your eyebrows knitted together, what was with him?

“Nothing. I get off in fifteen, you wanna dance?”

That surprises you a bit, you must admit. Your face shows it, reasons why darting through your head as you realize you should probably answer the man.

“Sure.” You reply, giving a shy smile. He gives a cute little chuckle, looking like he’s gotten to be comfortable, but as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, a new rush of sweaty people from the dance floor have shown up, and he throws you an apologetic glace as he hurries away. You sigh, but you know he’s coming back. Maybe this night won’t be such a bust.

The light from your phone illuminates your face as you look down, waiting for Pretty Bartender, as you’ve named him, to end his shift, and you’re just scrolling aimlessly through Twitter, sending the occasional text, when the thunk of a cup being set in front of you draws your attention. You look back up, and there he is, about to walk away, but he gives you a wink. He’s refilled your drink, and you smile softly, picking it up and kicking it back once more. He laughs, tilting his head back before turning and going through a door, presumably to the kitchen.   
You look down at your phone, typing a quick reply to a text, then getting distracted by a couple on the dance floor. They’re passionate, moving in sync, their lips on each other’s necks, and you look away, feeling weird for watching. Huh. Maybe it’s your drunken state, but you wonder what that feels like.

“Hey.” You jump at the voice, somehow missing Pretty Bartender standing beside you. He raises his hands, as if to catch you if you fall, but you give him an incredulous look.

“Damn, you scared me!” You say it with a small smile, and he looks relieved, his lips forming a smile in return. He has a cute smile…

“So, did you wanna dance, or sit there all night?” He asks, and you stand up quickly, allowing him to take your hand and pull you along towards the center of the mass. It’s a little crowded, and a lot claustrophobic, but suddenly, Pretty Bartender has pulled you close, not quite touching. His body begins to move, awkwardly at first as he searches for the beat, but as soon as he’s found it, he’s positively mouth watering. His head is tossed back, but when he realizes you’re just standing there, he smirks, stopping and instead, he places a hand on your waist, the other on the back of your neck, pulling you so that you’re chest to chest. His hips begin to move again, influencing your body to match, and your heart rate spikes. You smile, wrapping an arm around his neck, and toying with his wild hair. He’s got this look on his face, like he knows something you don’t, and you find it a little intimidating, but you don’t mind it.

How long has it been since you started to dance? It could have been minutes, it could have been years… You don’t care. This guy is perfect. He’s gorgeous, and every move he makes, you get a little more intense.

He’s leaned down, nudging at your neck with his nose, his lips leaving the occasional kiss, and you’re loving it.

“Y'wanna get out of here?” He asks, his thick Aussie accent making your heart beat harder.

You nod.

And that was only your first mistake.

___

When you wake, the first thing that hits your is the splitting headache. The pain comes like a slap in the face, and you recoil from it. The next is the burning in your wrists, and the ache in your knees. You can’t remember anything after the club…

Very slowly, and very hesitantly, you pry open your eyes, and begin to take in your situation.   
You appear to be in a basement, your bare knees on the cold concrete floor, and your wrists above your head. Looking up, you see that they’re handcuffed there, held by a chain, hanging from one of the rafters. Dried blood has run down your arm, but it appeared that the bleeding had long since stopped. It’s freezing, and there’s only one window, the only source of light. It appears to be daylight, but you can’t tell for certain.   
You’re still completely clothed, except for your shoes, which you can see have been neatly set by the wooden staircase, at the top of which you can see no light.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic.   
You keep saying this to yourself, out loud, even, but you feel sick.   
Pretty Bartender… Was this his doing? No way. No. Way. He was too nice, he never would have done this to you…

Did he drug you?

No! He couldn’t have!  
You panic now. You can’t breathe, your vision is cloudy, so you do the one thing that you know might help. You let out a bloodcurdling scream, twisting your wrists painfully to add to the power. It trails off into a choked whimper, and you hang your head, tears now streaming down your face. Shit. You were going to die. He was going to torture you, and then he was going to kill you. Shit.

Pounding footsteps sounded above your head, sawdust drifting down from the ceiling. Someone, presumably your captor, was running through the room above, and suddenly, the door at the top of the stairs is being flung open. You can’t bear it. Closing your eyes, you wait for the pain that’s sure to come, but as you hear them descend the stairs and cross the room, you flinch, trying to shrink away.

“Hey, shh…. It’s okay, it’s okay. Look at me, (Y/n), I wanna see your pretty eyes.”

That voice makes you feel ill, and your eyes snap open.

Pretty Bartender is knelt in front of you, wearing ratty jeans and a hoodie, his hair still wild, but his eyes the wrong kind of comforting.

“That’s better.” He says, reaching out to you, but you jerk away, trying to get away, but your bound hands keep you in place. You realize now that your ankles are chained as well, to the ground. You can’t move very far at all, which means he can easily pull you forward with a hand on the back of your neck.   
You cry out, trying your damnedest to pull away, but a sudden slap across your face leaves you stunned.

“I’d really hate to leave too many permanent marks on you, (Y/n), but if you keep fighting me, I’ll have to do worse.” He threatens you, and you know you should feel scared- and you do, really- but a sudden rush of fury fuels you.

Propelling yourself forward as hard as you can, hissing and spitting like a cat, you shout, trying to make any kind of harmful contact.

“You fucking bastard! Let me go! Let me go, or I’ll scream until someone hears me!” You snap, but he simply stands, using his thumb to wipe away a drop of your saliva from his cheek.

“You’re asking to be taught a lesson, and I don’t want to, but you’re going to force my hand.” His words fall on deaf ears, because you haven’t stopped fighting. You’re thrashing and snarling, knowing you’re not making much of a difference, but you stop suddenly as he steps out of your line of vision. A sound of confusion leaves your lips, but you’re cut off by the sound of jingling metal, and the white hot pain in your wrists intensifies as you’re hauled to your feet by the chain.   
You cry out, trying to struggle, but you’re trapped in place, your bare feet flat on the floor, but your arms are suspended above your head.

“Why won’t you be good for me? The way you were, last night at the bar, so cute and innocent… I knew you wanted to be with me. But when we came home, you started to fight me… You wanted to be here, you said so yourself! But you tried to leave, and I can’t help but wonder if you’re leaving out some important information.” You can hear him just behind you, and you brace yourself.

Cold hands slide over your waist, beneath your shirt and across your bare tummy.

“Please, don’t.” You whimper, and, like magic, the touch has gone.

“I’d never. I know you want me. But I’m not going to force myself on you. It won’t be like this.” Pretty Bartender moves to stand in front of you.

“But.. You’ve got me chained up in a basement. I… I’m dehydrated. I’m hurt.” You whisper, hoping he’s willing to think a little straight. You look up at the fresh blood running from your hands, then back at him.

“Then you’ll behave if you want bandages or water.”

“Or?” You shouldn’t have asked the question. You should have just shut up. You learn this too late, however, because you don’t see the blow coming until it’s too late. A low left to your rib cage leaves you gasping for air, after the whine of pain has escaped you.   
The man rubs his knuckles, watching as your body instinctively tries to curl up in reaction to the blow.

“You’ll stop asking questions. I’m the boss now, you understand that, don’t you, (Y/n)?” His fingers traced over your cheek softly, but you still flinch.

“I can’t believe I thought you were nice, Bartender.” You spit, only to grunt as he grabs your face, forcing you to look up at him.

“It’s Michael, darlin’. You’ll learn. I’ll bend you, the last thing I want is to break you.”

___  
It’s not long before there’s another confrontation. This time, he’s had it with your spark of spirit.   
Michael’s brought you some bread and fruit, a stupid, friendly smile on his lips. He can’t be serious, can he? Apparently he is, because he’s sat down in front of you, delivering a few slaps to your cheek to wake you.   
You start awake, looking up in distress before your eyes meet his. He motions to the food, and you glare, knowing the routine by now. You open your mouth, and he places a bite sized piece of toast on your tongue. You swallow it practically whole, and he gives you another. 

“You were on the news this morning.” He says, and you look up, eyes wide.   
“Your mum was begging for your safe return. Everyone knows your face.”

The words make your fingers curl into fists, and you growl, wanting to punch his stupid cute face. Apparently, he thinks your frustration is cute, because he leaned forward, his lips parted slightly.  
You brace yourself, grunting in discomfort when he cupped your cheek and kissed your chapped lips. It was disgusting, him assuming that, just because you were his a captive, you were his toy.   
You’ve had it.   
You try to pull back, but he’s got you held tight to him.   
Time for the last resort.   
Your teeth find his lower lip, and you bite down hard, making him jerk back with a growl of anger. He drops the food to cover his mouth, and you spit, tasting blood on your tongue. You don’t realize what you’ve done until he’s got the spark of fury in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have done that, (Y/n). Why do you want me to hurt you? Do you like it when I beat you?” He asked, his voice low and dangerous. You open your mouth to speak, but he grabs you by the throat, squeezing hard. A tiny squeak leaves you, and he leans in close, his face solid with anger, his green eyes sparking.

“I don’t like hurting you.” He punctuates the sentence with a brutal blow across your cheek, making a strangled cry leave your throat.

“I wish you’d just be good.” He hits you again, and you know for sure that there are going to be bruises. It didn’t matter, though. No one would be there to see them.

“Please.” You manage to whimper, and his grip loosens. Eyes softening, he cocked his head.

“Please what?” Michael asks, but you know he knows. He just wants to hear you beg for your life.

“I… I’ll be good. Please don’t… Please don’t hurt me.” You can feel your will breaking, your fight giving out. The smile that blooms over his lips is eerie, and it makes you cringe.

“You won’t fight me anymore. I want to trust you. I want to be able to unchain you and let you out of the basement. You’d like the house, but I can’t trust that you wouldn’t run away from me.”

“I wont!” You’re quick to cry, and you don’t know if you’re really lying for his benefit anymore. You’ve never been the kind of person to stay standing after such a beating.

“Do you promise? Because if you break my trust one more time, I won’t go as easy on you.” Michael crosses his arms after releasing you. You suck in a deep breath, nodding rapidly.

That was probably your second mistake.

___

It’s been painfully long.   
He’s begun to trust you, enough that he’s unchained your hands, and you’re sat on the cold floor, between his legs with your back to his chest as he cleans the wounds on your wrists, caused by the sharp metal of the cuffs.

It’s silent, as you mull over the thoughts in your head.   
You’ve lost your fight. As a result, he’s fed you, and given you water, and now he’s patching you up. He was surprisingly gentle at this, but the bruises from the process of breaking you lingered, across your torso and even your face.

A sudden sting makes your hand jerk hard, and a harsh tut sounds in your ear.   
“I didn’t mean to do that, just hold still.” He says sharply, but his actions never grow violent. The cotton soaks away the dried blood, and you sigh, trying to do as he said, but your body is stiff, distrusting of him.

“Will you relax? Why would I hurt you if I’m helping you?” Michael asks, and you swallow hard, shaking your head as you lay back against his chest. A contented sigh left him, his stubble scraping your cheek as he began to wrap the injury in gauze. He was being gentle and nice to you, after so many days of him bashing you and hurting you.

“Other hand.” It’s a demand, and you know better than to disobey. Pulling the wrapped arm to your chest, you hold out the other, a sharp intake of breath sounding as Michael began to douse it in alcohol.

“Sorry.” He mumbled, and you frown, glancing back at him. This is weird… You’re sitting between his legs, his thighs holding you tightly so you won’t try to move, but he felt more like an old friend than a kidnapper… You’re losing it. Definitely. You can tell because you’ve been studying him, admiring the way he did specific things. Admiring.   
He’d beat the hell out of you, insulted you, and made you feel like dirt, but he’d not tried to undress you. He definitely deserved a ‘Not As Much of An Asshole As You Could Have Been’ award.

“You never apologize.” You say softly, and he gives your hand a sharp squeeze.

“You’ve been good. Don’t question it or I’ll go back to being a dick. I thought we were doing better, hm?” He paused, and you turn to look at him swallowing hard as you realize the proximity between you.

“We are.” You reply, and he smiles lightly, like this is normal, and you’re just hanging rather than you being chained to the floor.

“Good. I was thinking about letting you come out of the basement soon. I figured you’d be tired of looking at the same old concrete for the last three weeks.”

Has it really been that long? You take a shaky breath, and nod, thinking about possible escape. He gives you a knowing look, though, as he returns to tending your wrist.

“If you try to run away, the way I’ll punish you will leave you needing stitches.” He says firmly.

“I know. I won’t run.” Glancing at the grimy window, you take a deep breath. You’d like to see real sunshine again…   
Michael has been good, all things considered. He’s fed you and all, but you’d been trapped in the dark.

“I hope not, darling.” He smirks gently as he fastens the gauze.   
“All done.”

You nod, watching him as he releases you, and stands up, brushing off his dark jeans. You sigh as you get up watching him. You have a feeling his threats are empty, anyway. The relationship has become dark and twisted, the way you’ve stopped struggling just to see the look of happiness and victory on his face.

“You look like you’re going to try and attack me.” His voice brings you up to the surface of your mind, and you blink before shaking your head.

“Good. Are you going to let me kiss you?”

He’d not tried in a long time, since you’d bitten him all that time ago. But now, looking at his bright, pillowy lips, you give a little nod, disgusted at yourself for allowing it to come to this. You’d watched the movies where the woman takes to their captor, and you’ve been so confused about that, but now, you get it.

He steps close, a hand resting on your waist, the other cupping your cheek as he presses a delicate kiss to your dry and bitten lips. It was the gentlest action he’d given you since you’d arrived, but now, you knew that you wanted to keep feeling it. Was… was this normal?   
He’d spoken to you, told you about things. He said he didn’t have many friends, that no one understood him.   
Could you?  
You think you do.

Michael pulls away after a moment, staring at you.   
“I wish we’d be together under different circumstances, (Y/n)… I wish I hadn’t done this to you.” He mumbled softly, stroking your cheek. You shift your feet, the chains jingling across the floor.

“I know.” You mumbled. You wanted to say so much else, but the look in his eyes dissolves from pride to… Sadness? Hands suddenly pulling back, he knelt down, producing a key from the pocket of his jeans. He unlocked the chains that held your ankles, and you stand there, stunned.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Leave! Get out of here!” He stays on the floor, but you don’t move. You don’t want to leave him, but you know that the word that you’re missing has gotten around by now.

“…..Why? Why are you just… letting me leave?” You ask, confused. He looks up, frowning. He looks… defeated.

“I… I don’t want to force you to love me. Or even like me. I… I just wanted you to be mine.” He mumbled, and you felt a tug at your heart. Maybe…

“I can fix it. You don’t have to force it. I’ll… I’ll stay with you. I’ll help you, okay?” You kneel beside him, and he looks confused.

“You’re not… running? You’re not leaving? Are you crazy?” He asks, and you ponder that for a moment. Maybe you are. You shrug, and he laughs humorlessly.

“You can’t force someone to love you. But I can learn to love you.” You say, and he bites his lip as he studies you.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t like doing it.”

“Then you’ll learn not to, or I’ll go and tell the police.” You reply, and he looks up, frowning.

“They’ll arrest me.” He states, and you nod.

“Then you’re gonna learn.” Your voice barely shakes as you speak to him, and you find yourself a little proud of that. Michael swallows, but nods.

“I can do that.”


End file.
